The Clarendon Rose (6 page)

Clarendon frowned at the reminder.
 
“And where was my brother during all this?”

“He spent all the time he could with your father, but he’s also been busy trying to establish himself—and you know how bloody determined he is to keep out of estate matters, lest anyone so much as suspect he covets your title.
 
He’s set on making his own way, you know.”

“So I’ve been told,” Clarendon said ruefully.

Lord Sebastian sat back, shaking his head as he stared at his friend with dawning amazement.
 
“God, Clare, but you have been away a long time, haven’t you?”

Clarendon sighed and rubbed his face.
 
“I’m only now beginning to realize how long, Bastian.
 
As Miss Merriweather was at pains to point out, Edmund was hardly more than a boy when I left.”

Clarendon finished the last of his coffee and went to the sideboard to replenish his cup.
 
Once he was seated, he turned to his friend.

“So what brings you this way?”

“An investigation of sorts.”
 
Bastian shifted forward, coming dangerously close to knocking over his teacup.
 
“And you might actually be able to help me on this one.”

“An outlandish notion indeed.”

Bastian ignored the comment.
 
“Do you remember William Farnsworth?
 
He was in the army with us.”

“Barmy Farny?
 
‘Course I do.
 
An absolute nutter, but a good sort for all that.”

Bastian nodded.
 
“He’s the one.
 
These last few years, he and I have been at the same bureau.
 
We were working on something together, when he was called back home on some kind of emergency.
 
Next thing anyone knows, he’s disappeared.”

Clarendon shook his head.
 
“Disappeared?”

“Into thin air.
 
No-one knows what’s become of him.”
 

“Bloody strange.”

“You’re telling me.
 
And for all that he used to be a bit of a scapegrace, these last few years, he’s been a pillar of respectability.
 
Got himself a wife, a few little ones.
 
The whole bit.
 
He’s not someone who’d just up and make himself scarce, if you see what I’m saying.”

Clarendon nodded slowly.
 
“So what was the emergency?”

“That’s the other thing—the note was supposedly concerning his wife.
 
Except that she’s in perfect health and has no knowledge of any emergency.”

“And how can I help?”

Bastian sighed.
 
“I had wondered if you’d been in contact with him recently.
 
But judging from your reaction…”

“Not a word, not since the old army days.”

“Right.
 
So, that’s what I’ve been looking into.
 
Funny thing is, there’ve been other rumors.”

“Rumors?”
 
Clarendon sat forward.

Bastian nodded.
 
“Another old army fellow—Claude Anderton—has also disappeared in the last year or so.”

Clarendon frowned.
 
“The name’s familiar…”

“Right.”

They subsided into silence, as Clarendon racked his brains.
 
Then he sighed, shaking his head.
 
“No.
 
It’s not coming to me.
 
No doubt I’ll remember sometime after you’re gone, and will have forgotten again by the time I see you next.”

Bastian nodded.
 
“Well if you remember anything useful, do pass it along.”

In the ensuing pause, Clarendon felt Bastian’s watchful scrutiny.
 
He washed down his mouthful of breakfast with a sip of coffee before meeting his old friend’s gaze.
 
“Out with it, old man.
 
I can feel you’re dying to ask me something.”

Bastian shook his head.
 
“Sorry.
 
It’s just—how have you been, Clare?
 
Really been, I mean.
 
Not just the polite nonsense.”

Clarendon felt a familiar weight settle in his chest as he thought about how to answer his friend.
 

“It kills me that I didn’t even get back in time for the funeral,” he said finally.
 
“On top of everything else, I mean.
 
The fact that I was such a failure as a son.”

“I didn’t know your father well, but I’m fairly certain he didn’t think of it that way.”
 
Another pause.
 
Bastian cleared his throat.
 
“You’re looking better though.
 
Better than the last time I saw you, I mean.”

Clarendon smiled without amusement.
 
“No doubt being able to stand upright and speak without slurring does create a better impression.”

“And the opium?”

Clarendon shook his head.
 
“One afternoon, about six months ago, I woke up feeling like I’d just dragged myself through hell.
 
And I knew that if I continued the way I was going, sooner or later, my luck was going to run out.
 
I’d be dead within the year.”
 
He swallowed, feeling the sick hollowness rise up in his throat once again.
 
“Instead of being glad, instead of wanting it, I just felt empty.”
 
He rubbed his face.
 
“I thought about Father and Edmund getting the news, and I realized that wasn’t how I wanted to be remembered.”
 

He paused, glancing at his friend.
 
“Something inside me shifted after that.
 
Maybe it was just the sudden recollection of the kind of man I had hoped someday to be—“
 
He shook his head.
 
“I don’t know.
 
But I knew I had to start doing better, if I didn’t want to have lived a meaningless life and died a meaningless death.”

Sebastian nodded, his expression somber.
 
After a few moments, he spoke.
 
“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

“You may have mentioned that a few times already.”

“I keep hoping that if I repeat it often enough, you’ll actually start hearing me one of these days.
 
You have to stop hating yourself.
 
You did your best.”

Clarendon could feel his body tensing.
 
“I did not.
 
I as good as knew Pepridge was involved with shady dealings.
 
I didn’t say anything.
 
Just relayed the orders I had been told to issue.”

“You didn’t know for certain at that point, Clare.”

“I had suspicions.
 
I should have voiced them.
 
I owed my men that.
 
Instead, I took the path of least resistance because I couldn’t be bothered.
 
And they’re dead because of it.”

“They’re dead because it was war.”

“I gave the orders, Bastian.”

A pause.
 
“So did all the self-flagellation and running away actually get you anywhere?
 
I mean, aside from half way across the world from anyone who gave a damn about you, and half out of your mind with self-hate, alcohol and opiates?”

Clarendon let out a slow breath, refusing to be baited.
 
“I don’t blame you for being angry.
 
But it seemed like the only way at the time.”
 
He met his friend’s gaze without wavering.
 
“Whenever I did come to England, the compassion in Father’s eyes made me sick with self-loathing.
 
What had I done to deserve it?
 
So I ran away again.”

Silence.
 
Again, it was Bastian who broke it.
 
“So now what?”

Clarendon didn’t miss the challenge in his friend’s tone.
 
“Now, I try to pick up the pieces.
 
I did figure it out eventually, Bastian.”

“Figure what out?”

“What you had been trying to tell me.
 
That in torturing myself and running away from my responsibilities, I was being selfish and self-indulgent.”
 
He tried for a casual sip of coffee, his grip tight on the cup’s handle.
 
“So, though I see their damned faces every damned night, I haven’t touched a drop of laudanum.
 
And, by God, I’m going to try to be the kind of man—and the kind of duke—my father hoped I would be.
 
I owe him that much at least.”

Bastian continued to examine his face for a few moments, his gaze keen and impersonal.
 
Clarendon bore it without comment, knowing he still had a long way to go in proving himself to those who had cared about him.

After a few moments, Bastian’s expression relaxed into a smile.
 
“Well at any rate, it’s good to have you back, Clare.”

Clarendon acknowledged the double meaning with a nod, feeling something inside him relax very slightly.
 
So he had passed the first test, at least.

They spoke further, exchanging a few random tidbits about old friends and acquaintances.
 
Then, Lord Sebastian stood.
 

“I suppose I should be moving on, old fellow.
 
I do have work to do, after all.”

Clarendon grinned.
 
“Don’t try to fob me off with that tired excuse, you old fraud.”
 
But he also rose.

Once Bastian had taken his leave, Clarendon glanced at his watch once again.
 
He had well over a half hour before his meeting with Miss Merriweather.
 
Perhaps he would follow her example and go for a ride through the extensive parklands that comprised a large portion of the manor’s grounds, before meeting with her at the stables.

“There’s a man ‘ere to see ye, sir.
 
A Peter Grimes.”
 
The girl bobbed a brief curtsey.

“Yes, yes, send him in.”
 

Lester Fitzwilliam considered London a dreadful bore.
 
It was just so inescapably banal, from the funk of its smells and the throng of its crowds to the filth of its streets.
 
He had arrived last night, taking rooms at this flea-bitten establishment so as to evade the risk of being recognized by any of his former acquaintances.
 
Another one of the tedious precautions he had to take whenever he came to the city.

The man who entered had muscular shoulders, battered, brutal features and heavy brows.
 
His thinning, greasy hair was roughly combed across the top of his head in streaks and his clothes were filthy and ill-fitting—
just this side of being rags,
Fitzwilliam noted, his eyes narrowed.

Fitzwilliam’s nostrils twitched at the stench that accompanied Grimes, taking up residence in the room like a third presence.
 
“Well, what have you to report?” he asked, his tone flat with disgust.

“I left Stan watchin’ the place, guv’nor,” the fellow said, bobbing his head with an obsequiousness that Fitzwilliam found cloying, if not inappropriate to a man of his station.
 
“But the toff set out yeste’day on ‘orseback and ‘asn’t been back since.”

“And for this you summoned me to the city.”
 
Fitzwilliam abandoned his idle posture for a moment to shoot the thug a lethal glare.
 
“I probably damn well passed the duke on my way here, for God’s sake.”

He sat back, shaking his head as he gave the man a flat stare.
 
“Next time, just send a message, as I instructed.
 
And know this: if I missed the blossoming of my latest beauty, I will hold you directly responsible.”

Grimes bobbed.

“Here’s the rest of the payment.”
 
Fitzwilliam tossed him a small bag of coins.
 
“For now, you’re off the job.
 
I’ll be in touch through my usual channels if I need you for anything else.
 
Now get out.”
 
He watched as the door snicked closed behind the thug.
 
But, when Fitzwilliam rose to follow suit, he noted with a touch of chagrin that the stench of the man lingered behind.

Drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, Fitzwilliam used it to open the door.
 
After he had closed it behind him, he carefully folded the square of cotton so that the sullied side would not accidentally touch his skin, before tucking it back into his pocket.
 

Don’t know why I bother really,
he thought dismally.
 
But then again, I suppose a leisured gentleman has to have some hobbies.
 
And I do declare that revenge, when it all comes together properly, is certainly almost as diverting as horticulture.

Fitzwilliam grinned suddenly, his stride acquiring new energy.
 
I wonder how my newest beauty is doing.
 
I’ll find out soon enough—and if all goes according to plan, I’ll have a new breed of rose on my hands.
 
Not a moment too soon, either…
 
He chuckled to himself.
 
I can hardly wait to give it a name.
And thus occupied with happy thoughts, he sought out the innkeeper in order to settle up his bill.

Tina set her horse Achilles to a walk, before turning to smile and wave at the smith and the carpenter.
 
They inclined their heads respectfully as she rode away.
 
She had set out for a ride this morning with no clear idea of where she was going.
 
After working off Achilles’s high spirits in an invigorating gallop through the estates, she had found herself riding towards the village, where she had run into a few of the tradesman who were involved with some of the ventures she and Uncle Charles had formulated to stimulate the local economies.
 
This one involved the estate’s investment in a small shop in the village for the building of good quality ploughs and drills based on Tull’s innovations.